


Habit

by Thia (Jennaria)



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-13
Updated: 2005-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennaria/pseuds/Thia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genesis, Chapter 18 and 19.  Sodom and Gomorrah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habit

**Author's Note:**

> This owes everything to [this picture](http://pics.livejournal.com/jennaria/pic/0001bp7g) of linnpuzzle's, and to irisbleu making me articulate why it appealed to me so much. And because there isn't enough pre-Arrangement fic out there.

Crowley stopped by Sodom once, back when it was just starting to develop from a standing collection of tents to something more permanent involving actual stone, and reported back Below that it was a nice place with good fertile ground around it, and the sort of enthusiasm for sin and vice that ought to be encouraged. He hadn't been back until now, unless you counted that time he'd run into a runaway slave girl over near Kadesh a few miles away, and talked her into going home again.

Then he'd run into an old acquaintance on the road from Damascus. The man had recently come into money, and exuberantly offered to buy wine for anyone and everyone at their next stopping place. This was good enough for Crowley, who never objected to parting a fool from his money, and so he allowed his acquaintance to take him on a tour of the best taverns of Sodom and Gomorrah, the Cities of the Plains, discreetly sobering himself up every so often.

It took two days and two nights to finish up Gomorrah and move on to Sodom. The third night, however, Crowley hadn't even begun to get properly drunk when he heard raised voices outside. Someone answered, too quiet to hear properly over the noise of the tavern, but quite loud enough for Crowley to recognize the voice, for all he hadn't seen its owner in fifty years or so.

_Bloody angel. What's he doing in a place like this?_

Crowley muttered apologies to his acquaintance, who was too busy debating wines with more new friends to even hear him, and headed outside.

"-- sort of question is that? Maybe we just came to drink, not to talk about _gods_."

"God. Singular." Aziraphale stood in the middle in the street, half surrounded by a group of men who must've been on their way into the same tavern Crowley just left. "I asked if you knew the ways of the Lord, which is surely a simple enough --"

"I think you just talk too much," another of the men interrupted. He stepped forward with a deliberate swing to his hips that made Crowley's eyes narrow: some bits of body language hadn't changed since the days of Cain, and that swagger was one of them. "I've got something better you could do with that mouth of yours besides talk about shit like--"

"Aziraphale!" Before he could talk himself out of it, Crowley shouldered his own way forward to clap one hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Glad I found you. On your way out, aren't you?"

He caught Aziraphale's frown out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it. There'd be time for yelling later, once they were off this street, and ideally out of Sodom altogether. The men in front of him frowned too, but in a confused sort of way rather than a "I'm going to punch you" sort of way. One of them -- the man who'd been talking when Crowley emerged from the tavern -- said, "Who're you?"

"Jussst a visitor," Crowley said. He must be more drunk than he'd thought: he kept wanting to hiss. "Beautiful town you've got here, but we'll be on our way."

One of the others opened his mouth as if he wanted to object, but the first one raised his hand and nodded once. "If we see you again, you're going to wish Shemeber here got you," he said. His eyes flicked over Aziraphale, then Crowley, making Crowley revise his original opinion: he'd thought he was saving Aziraphale from a _beating_. "C'mon, guys."

Crowley waited until that group was safely in the tavern, then tightened his grip on Aziraphale's shoulder and tried to tow him down the street. Aziraphale refused to be towed. "What are you _doing_?"

Crowley glanced around, frustrated. There were more men down the street, also headed for the tavern, not in earshot yet but it wouldn't be long. "Look, can we talk about this somewhere else? The farther the better?"

"If you're trying to interfere, you old serpent --"

"I'm _trying_ to save your angelic arse from getting killed!"

"Angels can't be killed!" Thankfully, Aziraphale took Crowley's cue and kept his voice down

"No, but it bloody well hurts like it, and you have to get a new body afterwards. If I wanted to score points off you, I'd have just kept my mouth shut. Come _on_."

A mile or two outside the city limits, Aziraphale dug his heels in. Crowley sighed and let go, just in time to duck as Aziraphale's wings spread outward, and Aziraphale drew a sword Crowley was quite certain he hadn't had back in Sodom. "Now then," Aziraphale said grimly. "Explain yourself."

"What needs explaining?" Crowley protested, staying cautiously out of sword-reach. "I was passing through Sodom, I heard you having your little discussion outside, I came out because it seemed like you needed a hand." He shifted a little, then took a step or two to the side.

The sword stayed pointing directly at him. "And you expect me to believe you simply happened to be here when I was?"

"The world's not _that_ large, Aziraphale. Not the important bits, anyway, and I'm not going to go tromping off to Chin just to make you feel better."

Aziraphale's eyes had narrowed. Oh, bugger it, he wasn't getting anywhere just talking. Crowley reached behind him and broke off a tree branch, as the nearest thing he was likely to get to a weapon without pulling one out of thin air (which would require rather a lot more explanation Below than he thought this situation needed).

Aziraphale's eyes un-narrowed, and he lowered his sword. "Crowley!"

Crowley glanced down at his tree-branch (quite a decent tree-branch, too, if a little leafy to be properly threatening), then back up again. "Yes?"

"You can't -- I can't fight you like that!"

Finally. He could always count on Aziraphale to do the honorable thing, at least when it came down to swinging at each other. "Then let's pass on the fighting part. I'll be on my way, and you can go back to your business -- though I'd suggest giving Sodom a pass for a century or two."

"My business is there," Aziraphale said, but the tip of his sword rested on the dirt rather than pointed at Crowley again. "And Gomorrah. I am the Lord's to command and prot--"

"Angel, Gomorrah's exactly the same as Sodom. Except with better drinks," Crowley felt compelled to add. "I can suggest a really good tavern, but not _yet_, that's my point."

Aziraphale thought about this for a moment. Crowley glanced back over his shoulder. No sign of pursuit from Sodom. In fact, there weren't any other travelers on the road at this time of night, which was rather a relief -- "Exactly the same," Aziraphale said, interrupting that particular thought before Crowley had decided how he wanted to finish it. "Both completely lost to, er, your side."

Crowley shrugged. "I was drinking, not asking around about morality. But it felt like it." Aziraphale was giving up much more quickly than he'd expected. If Crowley still admitted to having a heart, he'd have felt it sink. "I can go back and ask for you, if it's all that important."

Aziraphale's sword-point rose again, but in a half-hearted sort of way, and Aziraphale said, "No, I've no need to go back just yet. There's another bit of a job I need to attend to first." A moment, just long enough for Crowley to open his mouth to hiss _Suit yourself_, then, "I'll have to ask you to come with me."

"You will?"

"I certainly can't allow you to go back to Sodom and say anything."

Actually, Crowley had had no intention of heading back to Sodom. The thugs who'd taken such an interest in Aziraphale had probably also noticed _his_ face. But why point that out when Aziraphale's overactive sense of fair play was about to lead to Crowley getting answers to the questions he hadn't even asked?

"But you can't interfere," Aziraphale said sternly. "This is official business."

"Of courssse not."

Aziraphale led the way this time, not even hesitating about which direction to go. This resulted in them tramping much further than Crowley felt was necessary, no matter who they were going to go see. He tried to mention this to Aziraphale a time or two, but Aziraphale only said, with that irritating serenity he got on occasions like this, "I will be shown the way," and kept walking. At least he'd put the sword away, and winched in his wings.

This lasted all night and into the following morning. Finally, around noon, they crested a small rise to find a tent city lying before them, next to a grove of terebinth trees. Aziraphale made a satisfied noise under his breath, and said, "Mamre."

"Who?"

"Where, not who."

Crowley gritted his teeth and didn't insist that perhaps he'd meant it simply as a question. A demon had his dignity, after all. Instead, he followed Aziraphale down the rise and through the tent city. No one stirred at their approach. Crowley glanced around as they walked. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he couldn't see any reason why, which made it worse. No obvious threats, but he knew what a threat felt like -- you learned that very quickly Below. This felt like the Weight of Destiny.

Shit. If Aziraphale had dragged him under the Eye of the Lord, he was going to rip the angel's pinfeathers out one by one.

"My Lord!" An old man emerged abruptly from the largest of the tents, and bowed low, though Crowley couldn't be sure whether it was meant for Aziraphale, himself, or both of them. "I pray you, do not pass on by your servant, but allow a little water to be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the trees. I will bring a morsel of bread, that you may refresh your hearts." He bowed again. "After that you may pass by, inasmuch as you have come to your servant."

"We shall do as you have said," Aziraphale said, before Crowley could say anything at all, and sat down with a surprising amount of grace, given he was plumping down on the ground under a bunch of trees.

Crowley followed, belatedly realizing that they'd been walking for at least twelve hours, and his legs ached. "Who _is_ he?" he muttered for Aziraphale's ears only.

"Abram ben Thare, called Abraham," Aziraphale answered in a similar low tone, although by now the man in question had vanished back into his tent.

Crowley didn't ask _called by who_: the back of his neck still prickled, and he objected to asking stupid questions when he could avoid it. "Is his cook any good?"

"I wouldn't know," Aziraphale said quellingly, then spoiled it by adding in a more wistful tone, "I do hope so."

Crowley smirked and settled back against the tree, just as a very nervous-looking young man emerged from the largest tent with a basin of water. Apparently, this Abraham took his foot-washing seriously. Handy, that: while Crowley considered blisters to be beneath him, and thus never developed any, he still got sand and grit grinding into his feet, even under his sandal-straps. (He'd passed on that particular sensation to the Torture R&amp;D department Below.)

The boy knelt in front of him first and unlaced his sandals. Crowley looked away from him -- most people managed not to notice his eyes, but there was no point to taking chances -- and found himself staring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice, as he sat there studying his toes. Crowley tried to look away, but his gaze slid back to the angel, and with an internal shrug, he let it. Only good sense to keep an eye on Aziraphale. Besides, Crowley was warm, comfortable, and more tired than he should admit to, at least with Aziraphale right there up to G -- Sa -- Who knew what. Some kind of official business, at least, which probably meant that Crowley would be expected to do some thwarting of his own.

"Abraham," he said. "Bit of a name in these parts, is he?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Haven't you met him before?" Crowley pointed out.

"Not as such. He, ah..." Aziraphale hesitated. The young man finished washing Aziraphale's feet, rose, bowed respectfully to both of them, and vanished back into the tent. "There's been some messages, but I wasn't the one who delivered them. I'm not sure who did, to be perfectly honest with you, or if they were even _brought_, so to speak."

"You don't think he got them?" Dammit, Hell was supposed to notify him before someone else came Up Here, especially if they were meddling with one of those men Aziraphale's people sometimes inexplicably fixed on.

"No, I'm quite certain he got them," Aziraphale said awkwardly, then, "Oh, splendid, the food is ready!"

Crowley's eyes widened as he saw the amount of food being brought out to them. This went beyond the common politeness people offered to random strangers, in his experience. "Who does Abraham think we are?" he whispered to Aziraphale between platters.

"Visitors," Aziraphale said, without lowering his voice. He sounded entirely too smug for this situation.

"Just visitors?"

"Because _you're_ used to Sodomite hospitality doesn't mean the rest of the world has forgotten how to treat strangers." Aziraphale accepted the next platter with a pleased smile. "Besides, we've eaten his meat and his salt, we're obligated to treat him politely in return."

"'Polite' is overrated," Crowley muttered.

Abraham himself did not serve them, but emerged from the tent part-way through the meal to hover nearby. Crowley wasn't sure if this was more politeness, or perhaps a more straightforward prudence, keeping an eye on two strangers. He didn't know enough, and it grated.

After the last platter had been taken away and another young man appeared with fabric to wipe their hands of grease, Crowley said, "You've done well for yourself in this land." As research went, it wasn't terribly subtle, but Hell's reference department originated "need-to-know." Unless he turned this into an official assignment, his questions would stay unanswered, especially since he was beginning to suspect Aziraphale didn't know much more than he did.

"The Lord has been gracious to His servant," Abraham said, with another of those bows.

"As you have been faithful to Him," Aziraphale said. Crowley stiffened: all Aziraphale was doing was wiping his hands on the fabric provided, but Crowley had that prickling sensation of Destiny again. Aziraphale ignored him and said, "Where is Sarah your wife?"

"Here, in the tent." Still another of those bows as Abraham gestured toward the tent behind him. The tent-flap twitched as if it had heard him.

If Aziraphale noticed, he didn't so much as twitch himself. Instead, he took a deep breath, the sense of Presence so strong it was giving Crowley a headache, and said, "Then hear the words of the Lord, to you and to her: I will certainly return to you according to the time of life; and behold, Sarah your wife shall have a son."

Presence and Destiny took a powder the instant Aziraphale finished, leaving Crowley with the remnants of a thumping headache and in a nasty temper. That was _it_? They'd walked all the way out here (wherever "here" actually was) to let some local farmer know his _wife_ was pregnant? Abraham hadn't even thanked them, merely stared as if he wasn't sure whether to offer them a sacrifice or directions back to the road. The tent-flap shook briefly, then went still again.

"Why did Sarah laugh?" Crowley asked, as mildly as he could.

Abraham blinked at him for a moment, then turned and glared at the tent-flap, which promptly disgorged a woman who must been quite a stunner in her day, several decades ago. At the moment, she mostly looked scared. "Laugh, my lords? I didn't laugh."

"You did," Crowley said. _Close your mouth, angel,_ he thought in Aziraphale's direction, _or something will fly in _and_ Abraham might start asking questions neither of us want to answer._ "Is anything too hard for the Lord? Your age does not matter. At the appointed time the Lord will return to you, according to the time of life," stupid phrase, but if he was going to echo's Aziraphale's cant, he was going to be thorough about it, "and Sarah shall have a son."

Sarah muttered something that might have been an apology or might have been a "sod it, you're all crazy" -- Crowley had high hopes for the latter -- and vanished back into the tent, from which a babble of voices promptly arose. Abraham's smile had become a trifle fixed. "Allow me to see you on your way," he said.

Aziraphale rose to his feet, which meant Crowley had to do the same. "Our thanks," Aziraphale said, with another wary glance at Crowley, as if he expected him to say something contradictory. "We are headed for --"

The tent-flap twitched again, quite emphatically, and then was pushed aside by another woman. This one Crowley recognized -- and after all his protests to Aziraphale about not knowing the area that well. He blessed to himself. Aziraphale was busy talking with Abraham about who knew what, more ritual-sounding words, although there wasn't any nasty feeling of Destiny this time. If he'd just stay that way for the next few minutes --

"My Lord," the slave girl, who wasn't a girl any more, said, and bowed down to him as if she thought he really was a god of some kind. "Your handmaiden rejoices that she might rest her eyes upon your form once more."

"And I as well," Crowley said. What was her name -- ah, yes, Hagar. She didn't look as if she were being badly treated, although he wouldn't put it past that elegant lady he'd just tweaked. "Your son thrives in this land." And he'd just predicted her mistress, who supposedly hated her, would have a son to supplant Hagar's. Somebody Below was going to have a field day with this information.

"He is his father's son, and honored as such," Hagar said with a little shrug. She bowed to him again. "I must return to my mistress. All honor to you, my Lord!" And she vanished back into the tent, where the voices rose in a quick cacophony, then quieted once more.

Crowley stared after her. He wasn't sure if that counted as point for his side or Aziraphale's. Probably better not to mention it until he knew for certain. He turned away and hurried to catch up to where Aziraphale and Abraham were walking toward the road, or what Crowley assumed was the road. Abraham was talking in a rapid low voice, while Aziraphale listened and answered briefly whenever Abraham paused. "--suppose ten should be found there?" Abraham was saying as Crowley came within handy earshot.

"For the sake of ten, I shall not," Aziraphale said. He sounded as tired as if they hadn't just spent an hour or two sitting around beneath terebinth trees doing nothing but eat and prophesy.

"Aziraphale?"

Abraham glanced over at Crowley as if he didn't really see him, then turned back to Aziraphale and bowed low to him once more before turning and heading back down to the tents. Aziraphale stopped and waited, hands folded loosely in front of him, until Crowley caught up.

"Where are we going now?"

"Sodom."

"We're going to _Sodom_?"

"_I_ am going to Sodom." Aziraphale started walking again. "_You_ may go wherever you please."

"Aren't you afraid I'll muck up whatever it is that you've got to do?"

"You came quite close enough as it is," Aziraphale said, not turning around or slowing down at all. Crowley frowned at his back and tried to decide if he should take that as a compliment or not. "No," Aziraphale continued, before Crowley had made up his mind. "I can't think of any way even you could muck this up."

That didn't bode well. Not that any of this had exactly boded well, in Crowley's opinion, but this boded even worse, particularly the part that had that blessed angel marching right back into the city where Crowley had had to rescue him from himself. Aziraphale was going to get himself ki -- discorporated, just when Crowley had gotten him broken in properly. Entirely unacceptable. He reached for Aziraphale's arm. "Aziraphale--"

Aziraphale pulled free, as politely as possible given he was yanking his arm out of someone else's hand.

"You can't just march into Sodom!" Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm again.

"I suppose you have a better method." Aziraphale attempted to pull free again, but this time Crowley was ready for him. This resulted in a few minutes of undignified struggling on both their parts, Aziraphale's wings coming out, Crowley getting hit in the mouth by one wing, Crowley biting down in self-defence, and Aziraphale's sword somehow winding up on the road a yard or two away. Crowley couldn't remember Aziraphale drawing it, much less dropping it, but he wasn't going to object to not getting discorporated himself.

"Listen to me," he hissed in Aziraphale's ear, arms wrapped around the angel so he wouldn't have any choice. "It's not about your task, whatever it is, you can keep your blessed secrets if it's so important to you. But there's no point in going back there alone. You won't get past the main gate."

"Of course I will."

"No, you won't."

Aziraphale stopped trying to reach the sword. He was breathing heavily. "What reason do I have to trust you, you serpent?"

"Habit."

That wasn't a good reason. Crowley wasn't sure it was even a reason at all. But Aziraphale didn't reach for the sword again, only sat there in Crowley's arms until he'd caught his breath. Then he rose to his feet -- Crowley hastily let go, rather than start the struggling all over again -- and craned his neck to look at the wing Crowley had bitten. "Sodom isn't too far away," he said quietly, pulling in his wings so he looked human again. "If we hurry, we can reach it by evening."

They reached it near sunset, which proved exactly how lost Aziraphale had gotten them the first time. Crowley resisted the temptation to point this out: "habit" might cover his following Aziraphale someplace he wasn't needed or even really wanted, but he doubted it would cover criticism of Aziraphale's sense of direction.

"Here we are," he said instead. "Now what?"

"Hush," Aziraphale said. He was back to that irritatingly serene look. "You shouldn't worry so, Crowley."

"The last time we were here, the head of a major household --" a guess, but in Crowley's opinion, a safe one, "-- told us that if he saw us, _either_ of us, again, we'd either have to apologize and be _much_ more friendly than I, for one, am interested in being, or he'd have us killed."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "As I recall, he only threatened _me_."

"I doubt he'd let me go on that technicality," Crowley said. He glared at one of the men sitting by the gate, and took satisfaction in the way the man blanched and scrambled to his feet to run into the city. "_Where_ are we going?"

"Here now, my lords!" Another of the men sitting near the gate abandoned his conversation and rose to his feet to hurry over to them, where he bowed deeply. For a breath Crowley thought they'd been found already, and how he was going to explain this Below he didn't know. Then he recognized the sinking feeling. The Weight of Destiny had turned up for another go. Shit. He should've pulled out Aziraphale's pinfeathers when he had the chance.

The man didn't seem to notice. He hadn't even paused in what he was saying. "--and spend the night, that you may rise early and go on your way."

"We would not presume," Aziraphale said, before Crowley could open his mouth again. "We will spend the night in the open square."

They would _what_? He must have hit Aziraphale harder than he'd thought. Either that or the blessed idiot _wanted_ to be discorporated. There were taverns, places to stay that didn't --

"I insist," the man said, taking a step closer and bowing again. He looked vaguely familiar: it took Crowley a moment to realize it was because he resembled Abraham. "It would be my honor and the honor of all my house if you could stay with us tonight."

"Then we shall go with you," Aziraphale said, and returned the bow politely.

He didn't say much of anything else as they followed the man to his house. Their host's name was Lot ben Haran, Abraham's brother's son. He had a wife and two daughters, but if Aziraphale knew their names, he didn't mention them. The wife appeared only to greet her husband at the door with an unintelligible murmur in his ear, then vanished back into the private rooms. Crowley considered following her, but only half-heartedly. She wasn't another Sarah, ripe with exploitable emotion. She wasn't even another Hagar.

They went through the motions once they got to Lot's house. Crowley wound up doing most of the talking, what talking needed to be done -- Lot didn't ask too many questions. At last he went to check on the food. Crowley checked to be sure Lot was truly out of earshot, then said tentatively, "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale didn't look up from his intent study of his hands, currently folded in his lap.

Crowley thought about all the questions he could possibly ask, and settled on, "How long are we going to be here?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale said to his hands.

"Dying for your beliefs is something we convince _them_ to do, not do ourselves, angel. We have to leave. Tomorrow. Early."

No response again.

"Whatever you're going to do, it can't take _that_ long." A horrible thought occurred to him. "You're not here for another divine pregnancy test, are you?"

Aziraphale looked up finally, and frowned at Crowley as if that actually deserved a frown. "Of course not."

That was a relief, except it didn't help any in getting Aziraphale out of here as soon as possible. "If you're not going to tell me, I'm going to keep guessing." Of course it couldn't be as simple as _oh, by the way, your wife's going to be pregnant, congratulations_, not this time. Aziraphale looked like he felt the weight of the Eye of the Lord upon him as he hadn't back under the tamarind trees, and frankly Crowley didn't find the thought at all reassuring.

"Not in public," Aziraphale murmured at last, and discreetly gestured at the doorway that led to the kitchens, where Lot had just emerged again.

Crowley subsided with a grimace of his own. He _could_ keep guessing, no matter who heard. But it would mean muddying Lot's memory of this evening, if not wiping it completely clean, and to do that when Destiny was mucking things about... He might be stupid enough to be sitting here next to an angel, but he wasn't stupid enough to do the occult equivalent of jumping up and down in the town square, waving his arms, shouting _HEY! YOU UP THERE!_ Not yet, anyway.

Lot brought them roasted meats and unleavened bread -- well-cooked, but nothing elaborate that Crowley couldn't have ordered at one of the taverns. Crowley spared a wistful thought for the drinking he hadn't done, and opened his mouth to try another tack at the angel.

Another man -- older, dressed in the simpler clothing of a house-slave -- came into the room and murmured in Lot's ear. Lot's eyes widened, and he rose to his feet abruptly. "Your pardon," he said, bowed to them for the who-knew-how-many-th time, and followed the slave out the front door. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, ready to say something smart about this, to find the angel on his feet already.

"Aziraphale --" Crowley scrambled up and followed him. He already had the front door half-open. "Why are we following our host?" Wasn't it him who was supposed to break rules and sneak around? He was fairly sure he remembered it going something like that. Demons broke rules, angels obeyed them.

"Listen," Aziraphale said, and nodded out the door.

"--time for pleasant words." Not Lot's voice, or any voice Crowley recognized. Somehow that didn't reassure him, not when he could hear murmurs of agreement behind the speaker, like a large crowd. "Where are the men who came to your house tonight?"

A moment's silence, then Lot said hesitantly, "They are--"

"Bring them out," the first speaker said, the words overlapping with Lot's as if he hadn't been waiting for an answer at all. "Bring them out to us. We desire to know them."

_Know them._ Oh, very innocuous, except in local parlance and in context that meant something closer to gang rape. This was where Crowley had joined the party last time. He blessed under his breath. What had Aziraphale _done_ when he was here before?

"Please, my brethren," Lot said, speaking very quickly indeed, his voice quiet as if he didn't want anyone inside to hear this, "do not do this wicked thing. See, I have two daughters who have not known a man. Please, I will bring them out to you and you may do to them as you wish, only do nothing to these men. They came under my roof for protection--"

Crowley's eyebrows climbed as he listened to this little speech. "And I thought he was one of yours," he murmured to Aziraphale.

"He is," Aziraphale said shortly. "It's a matter of priorities." He was frowning again as he listened.

He was probably right, too. Crowley could hear the crowd's response to Lot: ugly laughter, and a different voice saying, "Stand back, foreigner!" and the first voice saying, "Who are _you_ to judge us, who wasn't even born in Sodom? Get out of the way now, or we'll finish the night with you once we're done with them."

Oh Go -- Sat -- oh, _no_. Aziraphale's eyes were closed and his lips moved as if he were praying. They didn't have time to wait for official approval on a miracle, Crowley decided grimly, and stepped forward. He could see through the crack of the door now: Lot was just outside, and a mob of men pressed close, not quite to the point of shoving their way past and through the door.

Crowley made a complicated gesture with one hand, then pulled open the door and yanked Lot back through before closing it again. Lot didn't seem to notice at first, but stared at the door as if he expected the mob to burst through it at any moment and opened and closed his mouth several times. Only when Aziraphale finally stepped around Crowley and touched Lot on the arm did Lot jump and apparently realize he was inside.

"Lord," he said, then, standing up straighter, "My lords, you shouldn't be here. They will break through the doors in a moment."

"No, they won't," Crowley said.

"They won't?" Lot echoed, looking around at Crowley as if he hadn't realized he was there.

"They're blinded," Crowley said, with a rather more casual gesture as if to say _it's nothing_. "They can't find the noses on their own faces, much less your door. At least for the next day, they can't." Between Destiny still sticking around and the feeling of being under the Eye, his headache had come back, but he could ignore that long enough to get out of here.

"You will have to leave as well," Aziraphale said. "You and all your family. Do you have anyone else besides those in this household? Any sons or sons-in-law, anyone at all?"

"I -- yes." Lot stood up a little straighter. "My daughters -- their betrothed are the only two men under my name's protection who do not live under this roof." His eyes drifted back toward the door again.

"Then go and get them," Aziraphale said. "Do not fear those outside. They will not be able to harm you."

Crowley waited until Lot left to say, "They're probably out in that mob."

"Perhaps," Aziraphale said.

This was starting to go beyond just the Destiny headache. Once they'd gotten well out of Sodom, Crowley decided, he was going to take Aziraphale to that tavern in Gomorrah -- bugger, no, not Gomorrah, Sodom and Gomorrah were practically one city. He'd stop somewhere and get a few skins of the local wine, then take Aziraphale off where neither of them would be recognized. If he got Aziraphale drunk enough, he could ask why Somebody thought it was a good idea to get a close relation of one of His pets thrown out of his home. Sheer sloppiness, in Crowley's opinion.

He opened his mouth to suggest at least the wine part just as Aziraphale turned back and said, "He'll be back soon enough. Someone must tell the women."

"If he'll be back that soon, he'll want to do it himself," Crowley argued, following him back across the room where they'd eaten.

"There isn't time."

"What, because of that crowd outside? They can't find the ground with both hands. Don't--" Appalled, Crowley bit his tongue before he actually said _don't you trust me_.

Aziraphale stopped and looked back at him, but didn't laugh in his face, or even say _habit can only stretch so far, Crowley_. He only repeated, "There isn't time. Will you help me find them or not?"

They didn't take much finding. Lot's house wasn't that big, and in any case all three of the women of the house had found something that absolutely had to be done in the room adjoining the dining room. For a moment Crowley remembered a twitching tent flap, but none of the women made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, if the hair in question _could_ stand up any straighter than it was already doing. The women looked up expectantly when Crowley and Aziraphale appeared in the doorway.

"Er," Aziraphale said, and glanced back over his shoulder as if he wished he could un-appear.

One of the daughters -- Crowley had no idea which one -- rescued him by asking, "Where is my father?"

"He has gone to bid your betrothed lords to come to you," Aziraphale said. The wife hardly moved, except her eyes flickering back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale. "You must prepare yourself to leave this place."

"Leave?" the other daughter exclaimed, but she hopped to her feet and went over to one of the chests that stood under narrow windows.

"Yes, leave," Crowley said. The wife still hadn't moved. "Tonight."

Footsteps behind them. Crowley refused to look back -- they were _blind_ out there, nothing to worry about even if Aziraphale fancied a bit of inscrutability -- but he felt Aziraphale sigh when Lot stepped into the room, alone.

"We must -- oh." Lot looked around, at his daughters gathering things together, at his wife still not moving from her seat, then nodded to no one in particular.

"Your sons-in-law?" Crowley asked, resisting the urge to smirk at Aziraphale.

"They did not --" Lot stopped again, then bowed to Aziraphale as deeply as he'd done the first time "Allow us only a few minutes, lord, and we shall leave this place."

The wife made a small, inarticulate sound, and got up at last.

Crowley watched the four of them for a little bit, then murmured to Aziraphale, "How far are we going?"

"As far as we can," Aziraphale said, as if that answered anything, then said abruptly, "Will they still be blind tomorrow?"

"Blind enough," Crowley said, straightening up to glare at Aziraphale. "They can't see _us_ for as long as I don't want them to --"

"Crowley."

"--and they can't see _them_ until sunset tomorrow." No sense of pride in his work, that was Aziraphale's problem. "So if you don't want to stumble around in the dark again, we don't have to."

"Ah, good," Aziraphale said, but he was still watching Lot with the absent expression of someone who's forgotten what his eyes are focused on.

Lot had, as expected, wildly understated the amount of time they needed. At first the humans were rushing about packing, which apparently involved nearly as much energetic discussion about what absolutely must be brought and what should have been thrown out a year ago as it did actually packing. After an hour or so of this, the two daughters were bickering about, "well if it's so important then _you_ carry it," and "we can't bring that, there isn't room." After two hours, Crowley made himself comfortable against the wall and closed his eyes. Nobody except Aziraphale seemed to remember he was even in the room, and while he could feel Aziraphale's weary glance, the angel didn't scold him for napping.

When he opened his eyes again, both daughters were curled up in the far corner of the room, apparently also asleep. Lot and his wife were nowhere to be seen, but Crowley caught the echoes of a whispered conversation just one of the doors. For a moment he considered listening in, then dismissed it with a shrug. He wasn't here on business, and he wasn't _that_ curious. Aziraphale had his eyes fixed on that doorway anyway, so presumably he had it under control.

At least Crowley hoped so. His headache was getting worse.

He glanced over at the windows. The dead black outside had lightened to, well, a less dead shade of black. "Almost dawn," he said.

"I know," Aziraphale answered, and abruptly stood up. "Lot!"

The man came back through the doorway, followed by his wife, who looked like she was trying not to smirk. The two daughters sat up in their corner: either they woke up quickly or they'd been awake a little while and faking it, because there wasn't even a suppressed yawn. Lot didn't even look at them. "My lords, I shall see you on your way --"

"You must leave Sodom," Aziraphale said, so flatly Crowley nearly broke and stared at him the way Lot was doing. "You and all your family, or you shall surely be destroyed."

The two girls, apparently wiser than their father, gathered up the baskets they'd packed. Lot looked back and forth, from them to Aziraphale to Crowley (who'd regained control of his expression) to his wife and back again. "My lords," he stammered finally, "please, have mercy--"

"The Lord sent -- us to save you from destruction," Aziraphale said, with hardly a hesitation over the pronoun.

"My lords--"

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. "If you would get the daughters, I'll take our host and his wife."

Crowley had settled back to enjoy the spectacle of Aziraphale attempting not to be diplomatic. He shut his mouth, nearly biting his tongue, and nodded once. Whatever was up, it either must be extremely serious, or Aziraphale was going to be in quite a lot of trouble. For some reason, that didn't appeal to him as much as it should. "How far?"

"City gate," Aziraphale said, his expression gentling. "Now."

The daughters didn't struggle when Crowley took them by the shoulders. Rather a relief, that: it was _possible_ to drag someone to another place without touching them, but it took more concentration. They all materialized at the main gate safely. No one was there to notice them. The air smelled off, somehow: the clouds overhead, perhaps.

Directly overhead. Over Sodom and Gomorrah only, now that Crowley came to notice it. His headache pounded in his temples like he'd been hit over the head with a collection of hammers of assorted sizes, and the exposed feeling had progressed from "hairs standing up on the back of his neck," to "standing entirely naked, without even skin to hide in." The Eye of the Lord was upon this place, and He wasn't happy.

"Run," Aziraphale said. It took a moment for Crowley to remember he wasn't talking to him. "Do not look behind you, nor linger on the plain. Run to the mountains, lest you be destroyed."

"But the mountains are so far away!" Lot flinched from Crowley's incredulous look, and added hastily, "There's a small city over there, we could make for it."

"Just go," Aziraphale said.

The humans ran. One of them lagged behind a little: the wife, Crowley thought. Aziraphale started after them after a minute. Crowley fell into step beside him, and said, in his best attempt at a conversational tone, "Official business."

"They're lost," Aziraphale said, in that same detached tone of voice. "Sodom and Gomorrah both. You told me so yourself."

"Aziraphale--"

"We can't stop," Aziraphale said quickly, pulling away from Crowley's hand. "And don't look back."

"They'll wait for your signal, won't they?"

He'd meant it to be more sardonic than it sounded. Aziraphale flinched as if it had been. "I hope so," he said. "Don't look back, Crowley. Please."

They topped a small rise, and saw in the distance a small figure at the gate of the city Aziraphale called Zoar, going in. Crowley reached out and blindly took Aziraphale's hand, pulling him in close, and Aziraphale let him. One hand came around Crowley's waist, holding on tightly.

Behind them, the heavens opened, and the Lord God rained brimstone and fire upon Sodom and Gomorrah.

\- end -


End file.
